Sunday, 25th June, 2 a.m
There was hardly any overnight pause at all in the frantic activity of the castle. Carey, finding his ribs griping him and his face at its sorest, got up, shaved himself gingerly by candlelight and threw on his green suit to go out and see how the preparations were progressing, leaving Barnabus snoring by the door. He found the yard lit by torches and crammed full of horses. The baleful duo of Carleton and Dodd were supervising the garrison as they groomed their hobbies’ coats and plaited their manes and tails. In the corner was Bell, who could not have been to bed at all, carefully polishing the flanks of old Scrope’s handsome chestnut gelding and feeding him carrots. Boys ran around underfoot, imperiously commanded by Hutchin Graham, lugging gleaming harness and saddles.
Carey wandered through the noise and spied the erect figure of Elizabeth Widdrington going into the castle kitchens which leaned up against the walls of the keep. He followed her, ducking automatically past strings of garlic and onions and the hams that were to be served later, and found her by the long table in the kitchen watching as two of the scullery boys heaved kid carcasses onto the empty spits by the vast fire. The baker was already pulling bread from the oven next to the fire, slamming in batches of penny loaves at a terrible rate. Half the produce of Carlisle market was heaped up in baskets by the larder door waiting to be turned into sallets and pot-herbs while Goodwife Biltock stood by the cauldrons hanging on the brackets over the flames, stirring mightily, her face verging on purple and her hair escaping from her cap in grey strings.
The small round greasy creature Carey knew as the Carlisle cook was sitting on a stool watching stale bread being turned to crumbs by two kitchen girls. He was the idlest man Carey had ever met outside the Court, rarely out of his bed before eight, but it seemed Lady Widdrington had impressed him with the importance of the occasion…Terrorised was perhaps a better word to describe the way he looked at her.
Carey turned to go, but Elizabeth caught sight of him and came bustling over, wiping her hands on her clean white apron, and smiling.
“How are you, Sir Robert?” she asked. “Is Lady Scrope up yet?”
“I don’t know,” Carey admitted, “I can wake them if you like.”
She nodded. “Scrope’s body-servant has the new livery for the boy and a decent gown for Bell. Any luck with the wine?”
Carey shook his head. “If Barnabus can’t find any, nobody can. I expect Bothwell had all the good vintages in Carlisle.”
“Can’t be helped. I don’t suppose anybody will notice and there’s plenty of beer and ale. I’ll soon need two strong men to help me carry the raised pies into the hall.”
She gestured at the table along one wall where three enormous pies, complete with battlements, stood waiting.
“They’re a little greasy, so don’t send anyone who’s wearing his mourning livery.”
“What happened to the sweetmeats?”
“They’re in Philadelphia’s stillroom, drying out. They can wait though: the less time they spend in the open for flies and boys to get to them, the better. How are your ribs?”
“Well enough…” began Carey, but Goodwife Biltock came up to him with a mug of ale, looking stern.
“You’re as pale as a sheet,” she scolded, “and bags to hide a pig in under your eye. Drink that, it’s spiced and has medicine in it.”
“What sort of medicine?” Carey demanded suspiciously.
“Something to prevent a fever. Let me see your face.”
She reached up, took his face between her rough hands and turned it to the light from the fire.
“Jesus,” she said, “you look a sight. I wish I could have got to your face with a few leeches when that was done…”
“Goodwife…” began Carey.
“And an axe for the man that did it to you.”
“I don’t…”
“Drink your ale.”
He drank.
“What do you think, Lady Widdrington? Will Lady Scrope…?”
“I’m sure,” said Elizabeth, still smiling at him. “Anyway, it can’t be helped and most of Carlisle know what happened.”
“We don’t want anyone laughing.”
“They won’t.”
“When did you last wash behind your ears, Robin?”
For God’s sake, he didn’t have to take this any more. “Last night,” said Carey repressively, “with your verjuice. It’s the best I can do without lemons. I’ll go and wake the Scropes if they’re not up already, my lady.”
As he left Goodwife Biltock tutted and said “Temper! Temper!” but he pretended to be deaf and carried on out the door, up the stairs and through the hall where trestle tables were set up and Scrope’s steward was shouting at a girl who had dropped a large tablecloth in the rushes. She put her apron over her head and howled as Carey slid by, climbed the stairs to the Scrope private apartments. He hid a grin as he knocked: it seemed the preparations for elaborate ceremonial were identical wherever you went. He almost felt homesick for Westminster.
Scrope was already awake and Philadelphia was in her smock and fur-trimmed dressing gown with her hair full of curling papers, her back eloquently turned to her husband.
“Philadelphia, my dear,” said Scrope nervously. Philadelphia sniffed. Carey was irresistibly reminded of a kitten sulking at being refused a second helping of cream, or no, hardly that, perhaps at having her tail trodden on. “Your brother’s here.” Scrope rolled his eyes eloquently at Carey who tried to look sympathetic. Philadelphia came over and kissed him on his good cheek.
“Robin, you’re here, that’s splendid,” she said. “How is Elizabeth doing?”
“I wish we had her supplying the English troops in the Netherlands,” said Carey gallantly, and then balked because Philadelphia was leading him to her dressing table. “What…?”
“Now don’t fuss, didn’t Elizabeth say why I wanted you?”
“No, she…What the devil are you doing? No, I don’t want to sit there, I have seven men to…”
“Oh hush, Robin, this won’t take a moment.” Philadelphia pushed her stool up behind his knees so he sat automatically in front of the mirror. She chewed meditatively on her lip and then darted forward and picked up a little glass pot.
“What the blazes…”
She started dabbing the cream onto his bruised cheek. Carey caught her wrist.
“Philadelphia, what are you doing?”
“I’m going to cover up all the black bruising so you don’t look like a Court jester, now let go.”
“I’m not wearing bloody face-paint at a funeral…”
“Yes, you are. Come on, Robin, did you never wear anything at Court?”
“I most certainly did not, who do you think I am, the Earl of bloody Oxford? I never heard anything so ridiculous in my…Ouch!”
“Don’t move then. Honestly, I’ve seen horses easier to deal with than you. Nobody will know if you let me…”
“Goddamn it,” growled Carey, looking round for moral support. Scrope had disappeared into his little dressing room.
“There now. A bit of red lead, I think, just a bit…Your skin’s hard to match, Robin, it’s lucky you’re not a woman. At least you got most of the walnut juice off, what did you use?”
“Verjuice, but…”
“No wonder you smell like a meat pickle. Smear a bit of this on, it’s a musk perfume, might hide the worst of it. Now then, perhaps a little…Yes, that’s better. Hm. Much better. Look in the mirror.”
“Oh.”
“I can’t do it round your eye because it’ll get sore. We’d better set it…”
She picked up a feather pad and dabbed it in powder, brushed it over his face. He sneezed.
“Now,” said Philadelphia with satisfaction. “Don’t touch your face, don’t rub your eyes, and when Barnabus cuts your hair, put a towel round your head so you don’t get clippings on it, but I think you’ll do. And be careful if you change your shirt as well. There, lovely. You look as if you’ve been in a fight, but you don’t look as if you lost it any more.”
“Philly, I…”
“That’s all right, you don’t have to thank me. Now I expect you’ve got a great deal to do,” she added with emphasis, “I certainly have.”